


Long night

by o mój borze zielony (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Gray rape, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/o%20m%C3%B3j%20borze%20zielony
Summary: Sherlock and John's first date ends with drunk sex. Sherlock has a strong suspicion it wasn't entirely consensual on his part. He cannot decide what to do.(Inspired by Liar the tv series. I don't like John but I swear this is not an anti-John angry rant.)





	Long night

Sherlock was lying in his bed, very still. He couldn't decide to get up. Awake for at least an hour and still in the same position, curled on his left side. He didn't know if he could move.

He had feverish nightmares the whole night and woke up a couple of times, frightened, unsure if they were only dreams. He felt hot and sweaty and sick. Drunk. Even now he still wasn't sober enough to stand straight. So he stayed as he was, lying on stained sheets.

Memories came back in waves. After years of miscommunication and mistakes, he and John finally realised they both wanted the same thing. Their very first dinner date, where they were first mistaken for a couple, made them ridiculously nervous. Sherlock was so anxious he barely touched the food. Alcohol, on the other hand, was much easier to swallow. They came home and John was suddenly holding a wine bottle. Sherlock distinctly remembered he was more than tipsy at that point and didn't really want to drink more. He was quite sure they didn't manage to finish the bottle.

He remembered the incredibly long way to his bedroom, John was right behind him, Sherlock fell down and chuckled, 'I've been waiting for you for ages!' when John finally came up to him and helped him stand up. John laughed too and he was so close. Whatever was holding them back from snogging senselessly was gone. Sherlock raised his arms and held John in a tight embrace. That was easier than kissing him back, Sherlock couldn't focus on that, didn't seem to know what to do with his tongue. John found it amusing and whispered he liked Sherlock like that. Sloppy and passive.

The bed was most definitely moving when Sherlock was finally pushed onto it. He was trying to hold onto the mattress and not fall down. It became easier when John joined him. He was on top of Sherlock, kissing him like his life depended on it, his hands touching him insistently. Undressing, even just enough for sex, was as complicated and ambitious as climbing K2. Somewhere between trying to unbutton his shirt and helping John with his, Sherlock realised that wasn't the best scenario for their first time. He wanted to enjoy it fully. His limbs felt useless and heavy, His words sounded like gibberish. John didn't notice his struggle to articulate his thoughts. He managed to tug down Sherlock's pants.

To stop himself from shagging John one minute into their first date, Sherlock took the precaution of not buying any lubricant or condoms. John was prepared, though. He sat up to roll the condom on. Sherlock didn't waste time on explaining he was too intoxicated to appreciate it. He wanted to crawl away. Rolled onto his stomach, but didn't get far away. John was on him and inside him.

He remembered the burn and deep, dull ache. Fear he would vomit all over his bed. John's harsh breathing behind him. Hands on his back. Frustration that it was nothing like his fantasies. Surprise when his body reacted to the stimulation. His orgasm, unexpected and blissful, made him even more powerless. He just lay there, numbed and limp, waiting for John to finish, annoyed that it was taking so long. He just wanted to sleep. Eventually, John slumped over him, heaving. There were muttered endearments and lazy kisses. After a while, John left and Sherlock fell asleep.

 

It was the thirst that forced Sherlock to get up. The kitchen seemed so impossibly far away. Every step reminded him of what had happened. He drank a glass of cold water, then another. He found his phone. Two messages from John. Happy morning after ramblings and a slightly awkward suggestion to have lunch together. Sherlock re-read the messages a couple of times. John clearly had no idea how disastrous the previous night was in Sherlock's opinion.

Without thinking, Sherlock rang Lestrade. Ended the call a few seconds later, having spotted the wine bottle in the sitting room. Half-full. Next to it, two glasses, neither squeaky clean or empty. Sherlock turned around and went to the bathroom. He quickly found the used condom. John wasn't stupid. The reason why he left all the evidence was simple: he didn't know he was going to be accused of rape.

Sherlock analysed the situation. Both of them were drunk. Most likely Sherlock's drink wasn't spiked. He wasn't bruised or injured. He didn't fight back, didn't say no. John misinterpreted his change of position. And above all, they were in love with each other. There was evidence they had sex. Apart from Sherlock's words, nothing suggested it wasn't fully consensual. No one would believe Sherlock.

 

He was getting cold. What he wanted was to take a long, warm shower, put clean clothes on and get out of the flat. Throw the bedding away, buy a new mattress. But it all had to wait. He had to be examined first. He already had little chance of convincing anyone, after a thorough cleaning, telling anyone would be pointless. He was going to call Mycroft. Greg. Molly. Mummy. It'd be so much easier to let someone else handle the situation.

He didn't contact anyone. Mud sticks. John would always be the man who assumed Sherlock consented. Nothing would ever change that. One day Rosie would hear about that. Sherlock didn't want that. His only wish was to turn back time. Start again, without a drop of wine.

 

When John dropped by after work, Sherlock was still wearing the clothes he picked for the date. Sherlock didn't shower, left everything as it was, still debating with himself if it was worth reporting. He felt tired and dirty. He didn't know what to tell John. He watched him, saw his expression alter. His smile faded.

'What's the matter? Are you all right? You look a little pale, have you eaten?'

That was the last chance to pretend nothing happened. Sherlock could keep it to himself, forgive John. He didn't think John's intention was to hurt him. It was a mistake, a proof that alcohol and sex don't mix.

'How drunk did you think I was last night?'

John chuckled, a little bit nervously. 'Less than on my stag night. You didn't vomit. Why? Has anything happened?'

Sherlock took a deep breath. There was no point in dragging it out. 'I didn't want to have sex with you. When I turned around, it was to get away from you. You didn't notice. I haven't decided what to do yet.'

John waited to hear it was a bad joke. Sherlock didn't say anything more nor did he look away. John's reaction seemed genuine and unrehearsed. He froze in shock, mouth hanging open. He understood the gravity of the situation. After a while, he began mumbling mindlessly, 'Oh, my God, Jesus, Sherlock.' He put his head in his hands and wept. He knew, both of them did, that something was irreparably damaged. Irretrievably lost. They had hurt each other in the past and always managed to forgive and move on. This time, it was different. Sherlock wanted to be with John, forget the night they regretted. He wasn't sure that was possible.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to offend anyone, thank you for your understanding.


End file.
